-^7 




Class T" S -3 S ^ 1 
Boofc_^I£Ii_±_W.C 
Copiglif W" I ^ I g ^ 



COFMRIGHT DEPOSm 



WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 




The Little Grey Homestead 



WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 

Children s Rhymes of Oyster Bay 



BY 



MARY FANNY YOUNGS 

With an Introduction by 
The late THEODORE ROOSEVELT 




NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
681 Fifth Avenue 



Copyright 1919, by 
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



All Rights Reserved 






^i^f -0 idib 



Printid in the United States of America 



©CI.A53O092 



TO THE 

GLORIOUS MEMORY 

OF THE 

Little Lad in the Daisy Field 



PREFACE 

When we were little, we lived in an old 
gray house in Oyster Bay Cove, so close 
to the harbor that the high tides in the 
Spring and Autumn always flooded the 
dark, earth-floored cellar. For two hun- 
dred and sixty years the little old house 
has stood there, and in all that time has 
never gone out of the possession of the 
lineal descendants of the stanch old pioneer 
who built it. For that reason, the love of 
the old traditions, the old ways, the very 
rafters over our heads and earth beneath 
our feet, were not only, "bred in our bone," 
they were soul of our souls. 

Until a very few years ago, the life in 

Oyster Bay was as simple in many respects 

as it had been for the past two centuries. 

Old ways of doing things were still our daily 

vii 



PREFACE 

usage, and as for the dear people who 
helped us with our work of house and farm, 
they were friends and helpers in very 
truth, loyal to us, and we to them. Al- 
though these happy, patriarchal days were 
passing, with the Victorian era, while the 
children of Sagamore Hill were growing 
up, there was still much of the old, sweet 
atmosphere left — there is some, even now, 
among ''old Oyster Baysters!'' — and of it 
all, the Sagamore Hill children were an ac- 
tive and well-loved part. They, too, as well 
as we older children from the little gray 
Homestead, dug clams, fished for horse foot 
crabs, went to the blacksmith shop, and hid 
in the hay-mow, and on Sundays, watched 
the sparkling blue harbor through the open 
windows of the little church. 

Therefore, when these rhymes about our 
childhood doings in the Cove, and the 
places and people we loved, were sent to 
the Colonel and Mrs. Roosevelt, to amuse 
them and their "grand-babies," their inter- 
est and their great kindness moved the 
viii 



PREFACE 

Colonel to write a friendly foreword, and 
Mrs. Roosevelt to lend some of her cher- 
ished pictures, making it possible for these 
simple rhymes to go out into the world 
coupled with the names of those happy 
Sagamore Hill children, who have since be- 
come the best and bravest types of Ameri- 
can manhood and womanhood; and with 
the seal of kindly approval from the two 
noblest Romans of us all. 

The rhymes were originally written for 
Harding Tremain Mason, and it is with 
his permission that they are printed, in lov- 
ing tribute to "the kind hearts, the true 
hearts, who loved the place of old." 

Mary Fanny Youngs. 

Garden City, Long Island, 
October, 1918. 



IX 



POSTSCRIPT 

Since the above preface was written, the 
dear Colonel has gone to his last resting 
place, on the hilltop by the harbor that he 
loved. All the more may these little 
rhymes bring back to those who love him 
the happy memory of the old days. — May, 
1919. 



XI 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Katie . . . . . . . .3 

Week-Days 5 

Sunday 7 

Grandma's Games 10 

The Four Seasons 12 

Shelling Peas 15 

The Garret 16 

Getting Dressed 18 

The Dear Old Gran* . . . .19 

The High Tides 21 

The Squeaky Chair 23 

Cloud Castles 25 

The Wise Playmate 26 

My Cats 28 

The Banty Hen 30 

The Corn-sheller 32 

The Boat House 34 

Cap'n 35 

HoRSEFooT Crabbing 37 

The Strawberry Patch . . , .39 
xiii 



xiv CONTENTS 






PAGE 


The Woodshed Roof 


41 


Keewaydin 


43 


The Land of Heart's Desire 


45 


The Blacksmith 


47 


The Garden Flowers . , . . 


49 


The Edge of the World . 


SI 


"Christmas by the Sea" . . . , 


53 


The Playmate of Nazareth . 


55 


The Grape-vine Swing 


57 


The Dear People .... 


59 


Cousin Arnold's Mill 


. 61 


The Yellow Stage .... 


. 63 


Down the Bluff .... 


. 65 


Bed-time Song 


. 67 


In the Cove 


. 68 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING 
PAGE 



The Little Grey Homestead . Frontispiece 

Out in the Field 6 

Where the Meadow Grass is High (Quentin 
Roosevelt) 13 

In the Strawberry Patch (Archie Roosevelt) 39 
Where the Brown Wood Robins Sing . .57 



XV 



FOREV/ORD 

Miss Youngs writes of the quaint, old- 
time Long Island life, of which not only 
her father and I, but she herself and my 
children, were part. It was not the life 
of the ''summer resident." It was the life 
of those who lived winter and summer in 
the simple, pleasant houses, beside the shore 
or on the neighboring hills of the northern 
Long Island country. It is a lovely country. 
The coast line of the Sound is broken by 
cove and bay, and the salt marshes alternate 
with low tree-covered bluffs, and beach 
plums and bayberries and beach rosemary 
grow on the stretches of white sand. Back 
of the coast line come meadows and 
orchards, and in the rolling lands behind 
are pastures, and many ponds, and very 
rarely a brook. 

xvii 



FOREWORD 

The people who dwelt on these farms or 
who got their Hvelihood on the waters of 
bay and Sound, came from a stock which 
had been on the island for nearly three cen- 
turies. The life was what they had them- 
selves developed. They had no traditions 
of any other. Their roots had been in the 
soil for generations. 

It is with this life that Miss Youngs deals 
in her charming little poems, which tell of 
the work and the play of both grown-ups 
and children. Naturally they appeal very 
strongly to me ; for I love the Long Island 
fields and woods, at all seasons ; at the high 
tide of the year when the green foam of 
spring breaks into the deeper green of sum- 
mer; and at the time of the glory of the 
sharp fall weather; and again when the 
bleak days are shortest and winter grips the 
land. And I love the old houses, from 
kitchen to garret, and the life that was once 
lived in them. 

I hope these poems will also appeal to 
others ; for our life was essentially the same 
xviii 



FOREWORD 

as all the old-fashioned life lived elsewhere 
in the open country; and this was funda- 
mentally a simple and a wholesome life. 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

Sagamore Hill, 
August 15th, 1918. 



XIX 



WHEN WE WERE LITTLE 



KATIE 

THERE is no one like Katie that ever 
I saw, 
For she makes all my dresses and hats, 
She knows ail about flowers, and the queer- 
looking stones, 
And she helps me find names for the cats. 

When I'm sick, she takes care of me, day- 
times and nights. 

And she knows how to drive like a man, 

And she knows how to row, and she knows 
how to sail. 

And catch fiddlers for bait in a can. 

She tells wonderful stories of horses and 

things, 
And a crow that she had for a pet, 
And her beau is named Peter, but lucky 

for me. 
He hasn't come after her yet. 
3 



KATIE 

Vm afraid I'm too big for a regular nurse, 
But she'll stay with me, always, I hope. 
For I love her forever, although when I'm 

bad 
She washes my mouth out with soap. 



WEEK-DAYS 

EVERY morning I go out 
To see what Celia is about; 
Then I go outdoors to see 
What the weather's g'wine to be — 
Then I go to feed the cats, 
Then Grandma chases me with hats 
And overshoes, to keep me dry. 
Then I get away, and I 
Run as quickly as I can 
To go and help that nice hired man — 
(Frank's his name) and from the mows 
We pitch down hay to feed the cows. 
I help him fill the mangers full — 
Feed apples to old Bill the Bull 
Who stands so quietly in his stall 
And never chases me at all. 
Then I go and feed the big 
Grunting, rooting mother pig, 

5 



IVEEK-DAYS 

And all the little pigs get out 

And scamper madly all about; 

Then I feed the ducks, and then 

Back to Celia go again, 

And if she's making cake, you know, 

Why, then I steal a piece of dough, 

And when she chases me away 

I go out in the field and play. 

After dinner, now and then, 

I go back to the barn again. 

Or sometimes for a drive I go. 

Or Katie takes me for a row, 

Then I come back and have my tea — 

Then, sometimes, Grandpa reads to me. 

Then, off to bed — Now don't you say 

I have an awful busy day? 



SUNDAY 

SUNDAY is such a different day 
From all the other days — 
I do such different kinds of things 
And play such different plays. 
Up to the queer old Chapel, first. 
To Sunday-school I go, 
And there learn Bible stories 
Which I already know. 

Then sevVal miles to church we drive 
All in our Sunday things — 
Across the graves and out to sea 
The cheerful church-bell rings. 
We sit so far toward the front 
We never dare be late — 
I love to hear my Grandpa sing 
And see him pass the plate. 
7 



SUNDAY 

And when it comes to sermon-time 

Which I can't understand, 

I watch the window where the Christ 

Looks down, with Hfted hand; 

I look across the shining bay 

All crinkled with the breeze. 

And up into the still, blue sky. 

And flowering locust trees. 

And after we have gone back home 

And dinner all is done, 

Then I would like to go and play 

And have a little fun, 

But Grandma says ''No games to-day !"- 

— Then Katie comes, and we 

Go out for hours among the woods 

To see what we can see. 

And sometimes it is windflowers, 
And sometimes bloodroot white. 
And sometimes it is arbutus 
Half hidden out of sight. 
And sometimes it is puddingstones 
And sometimes velvet moss — 
8 



I 



SUNDAY 

But always we are happy there 
And never come back cross. 

Then, after tea we read awhile, 
And when I've gone to bed — 
When I am safely tucked away 
And all my prayers are said, 
Katie upstairs, and Grandpa down. 
They both begin to sing. 
And as I drift away to sleep 
I hear their voices ring — 

"From Greenland's Icy Mountains,' 
''Nearer, My God, to Thee," 
"The Church's One Foundation," 
"Jesus Loves Even Me" — 
And that's the very last I hear. 
And this is why I say 
I like my Sundays different 
From any other day! 



GRANDMA'S GAMES 

GRANDMA declares she's very old- 
A hundred, if the truth were told- 
But I don't think she is at all, 
For winter evenings, in the hall, 
When I am lonesome, after tea. 
She plays such lovely games with me, 
And if she were that old, I know 
She couldn't play — she'd be too slow — 
But up and down the room we go: 

"Come Philander, let's be a-marching, 
Everyone his true love a-searching — 
If you cannot find your lover. 
Turn again, and take another." 

And sometimes, when she's feeling spry. 
She likes to run, and so do I, 
So all across the hall we fly: 

"I'm on Dixie's land — • 
Dixie isn't home — 
Dixie's got a sore toe. 
And he can't come!" 
10 



GRANDMA'S GAMES 

And oh! the nicest game we play 

Is much too good for every day, 

For sometimes (Grandpa helps us, too,) 

We play all "Cinderella" through! 

But Grandma says I'm sure to find 

A real step-mother would be kind. 

So when she's cruel, we always say: 

"A real one wouldn't act that way." 

And when the shining prince comes in. 

Then the exciting times begin — 

And after all the slipper fuss, 

Then Grandpa has to marry us; 

Grandma's the prince; she takes my hand, 

And very solemnly we stand. 

While Grandpa, with an awful frown, 

A broomstick on the floor puts down. 

And Grandma and her blushing bride. 

We jump that broomstick, side by side, 

While Grandpa thus the knot has tied: 

"Follow the old Colonial Law, 
And marry the Injun to the squaw !" 

And Winter evenings after tea. 
Wouldn't you like to come and see 
The games my Grandma plays with me? 
II 



THE FOUR SEASONS 

OW is the time when the marshes ring 

With the peeper's bell-Hke song of 

Spring, 

And the weeping willows begin to show 

A green-gold fringe, and the pale shad-blow 

Stands like a ghost, in the Schoolhouse 

Woods, 
And the skunk-cabbage shows its purple 

hoods. 
And the pussy-willows their silver sheen. 
The far hills are veiled in a haze of green, 
On the northern hillsides, close to the 

ground, 
The fairy arbutus may be found, 
And the sun dances over a laughing bay, 
And I take my coat off, when I play. 

12 






•^^i^:#v ^ ■ ^* 


■ . ■ *fe.'*. . ? 






mmi 





c 


o 


a 


o 




P^ 


UJ 


'Z 


:r 


H 


a 


;i 


s-> 


w 


^ 


D 


s 


a 


o 


^^-^ 


O 




fti 


K 


■^ 


a 



THE FOUR SEASONS 

The sun is as hot as hot can be, 
And it draws the scent from the big box-tree 
Where I have my playhouse. Old Irish Hes 
Out on the porch, and snaps at flies. 
The locusts sing in the maple trees, 
And the leaves just move in the weary breeze, 
And out where the meadow grass is high 
The mowing machine goes whirring by. 
And the shutters are shut, so the sitting 

room 
Is a place of cool, sweet-scented gloom, 
With the smell of the bowl of mignonette 
And heliotrope, on the table set — 
And under the blazing sun, the bay 
Lies as still as glass, through the long, still 

day. 

3. Attfumn 

The chestnuts are dropping, one by one — 
Down in the garden, the flowers are done. 
The apples are heaped in the cider mill, 
And the evenings fall with a sudden chill. 
13 



THE FOUR SEASONS 

The leaves lie thickly along the street, 
And I love to kick them beneath my feet, 
The maples are crimson, and pink, and gold. 
And the crows alongshore are growing bold. 
And from over the hills and far away 
A cold wind ruffles the steel-blue bay. 



4. Wmttv 

The back of the house Is banked about 
With salt hay, to keep the North Wind out, 
And if Grandmother lets me go out at all 
She wraps me up in the big old shawl. 
The apple orchard is gray and bare. 
With a wizzled apple, here and there ; 
Sometimes the ground with snow is white. 
And sometimes hard and frozen tight — 
Ice on the pond and everywhere, — 
And you see your breath in the frosty air. 
And in the evenings. Grandpa sits 
And reads to Grandma, while she knits — 
And all the boats are put away 
From off the dark and icy bay. 



14 



SHELLING PEAS 

HEAR the peas go tinkling 
Like raindrops in the pan! 
Get the bottom covered 
As quickly as you can — 
All of us together 
As busy as the bees — 
Ain't it fun, when Aunty 
Let's us shell the peas! 

Keep the pods together 

In a tidy pile, 

We'll feed 'em to the chickens 

In a little while — 

Now we've done a panful 

As quick as you could sneeze — 

Haven't we helped splendid. 

Shelling all those peas? 



IS 



THE GARRET 



UP in the garret the roof comes down 
So low that I bump my head, 
And a curious smell of dust and wasps 
From under the eaves is shed. 



The rafters are rough with the marks of 

the ax 
And the shingles curl with age, 
And on hooks here and there, great bunches 

hang 
Of catnip, and thyme, and sage. 

There are bags of flax, there are candle 

moulds, 
A reel, and a hetchling bench. 
And beds that are corded across with ropes 
Screwed up with a queer old wrench. 
i6 



THE GARRET 

Two big wool wheels, and three for flax, 
And a bookcase of strange brown books — 
And bags and bags full of clothes and rags 
Swing down from the handwrought hooks. 

I like to go up there when Aunty goes 

But not by myself, at all, 

For wasps and mice — yes, and rats ! — might 

come 
From down by the chimney wall. 

But when Aunty goes, then I tag behind 
And play I am very bold, 
And I spend whole mornings in finding out 
What the chests and the ragbags hold. 



T7 



GETTING DRESSED 

GRANDPA has harnessed Jack and Bob 
Up to the Rockaway — 
We're going to Matinecock 
To spend the day. 
Grandma has on her grenadine, 
And Katie's after me 
To dress me up. I know too well 
What tJiafll be! 

I'll have my shoes with shiny toes, 

And my new summer hat, 

And a clean dress, but that's no harm — 

I don't mind that! 

I like my dress, and pretty sash, 

I think they're perfect dears, 

I don't mind clothes, but how I hate 

To wash my ears! 



i8 



THE DEAR OLD GRAN* 

THE dear old Gran' is very black, 
And Mar'gret is her name — 
I wouldn't care if she was pink, 
I'd love her just the same! 
She takes me up into her lap, 
And calls me "po' Miss Mame." 

The dear old Gran' makes ginger cakes 
And sugar cookies too. 
She lets me help her grease the pans 
And stick a broomstraw through 
The cakes, to see if they are done. 
I love her; wouldn't you? 

The dear old Gran' ties up her head 
In a white turban thing. 
She wears long-sleeved red flannel shirts 
Both Summer-time and Spring, 
Because of mis'ry in her back 
Which hurts like anything. 
19 



THE DEAR OLD GRAN' 

The dear old Gran' gets awful cross 

If I forget to show 

All my new clo'es, and shoes, and hats, 

It hurts her feeHn's so — 

She says ''Miss Mame is gittin' proud''- 

But she knows better, though. 

The dear old Gran* is very old — 

She says she has a plan 

To go away and leave us soon — 

I don't see how she can! 

I don't see quite how we could live 

Without the dear old Gran'! 



20 



THE HIGH TIDES 

OST every Autumn, when the storm 
They call the ''Line storm" comes, 
With howling wind, and slanting rain 
That on the tin roof drums. 
Grandpa comes in the north-side door 
And slams it with a pull, 
And shakes himself, and stamps, and says, 

"Well, Tom, the cellar's full." 

Oh, then what fun! — at least, for me — 

The rest are not so glad — 

They do not like the cellar full. 

It seems to make them mad — 

So Grandpa gets his rubber boots 

And Uncle Tom gets lights. 

And Frank gets washtubs, and they go 

To ''set the place to rights." 

I sit upon the cellar stairs. 
And watch them splash around — 
You see, the tide comes washing In, 
And soaks up through the ground, 

21 



THE HIGH TIDES 

And makes our cellar like a lake 
With everything afloat, 
So in a washtub each man sits 
And paddles like a boat! 

They sail around securing things — 
I watch their lanterns glow, 
Up in the dark, and then again 
Reflected down below. 
They look like pirates in a cave 
Upon a lake of ink — 
Wouldn't I like to scuttle Frank 
And make his washtub sink! 

But on the steps I quietly sit 

And watch them bump around, 

And play it is a flooded mine. 

Or robbers underground, 

And when they've rescued everything 

From off the cellar floor. 

The washtub fleet turns home again 

And paddles safe to shore! 



22 



THE SQUEAKY CHAIR 

A QUEER old rocking-chair there 
stands 
Right by my Httle bed, 
It has a cover on the back 
With yellow flowers, and red, 
And when I have been very good 
And said my prayers all right 
I go to Katie, and I say — 
"Rock me to sleep, to-night?" 

(Fm awful big to rock to sleep, 
Fm nearly half-past five.) 
Then Katie says 'Why, Baby's back, 
As sure as I'm alive!" 
But then she takes me on her lap, 
Although my legs hang down, 
And laughs, and says **Now, Baby dear, 
We're off to Sleepy Town!" 
23 



THE SQUEAKY CHAIR 

"Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk,'* the old chair 

goes, 
It has an awful squeak. 
*'Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk.'* I try to talk, 
But I — forget — to — speak. 
"Eenk — awnk, eenk — awnk," the old chair 

says. 
From some place far and deep 
I hear it call "Eenk — aw^nk — eenk — 

awnk " 

And then 

I 
go 
to 

sleep. 

(Published in The Wildman Magazine.) 



24 



CLOUD CASTLES 

I LIE on my back, looking up at the sky 
And watch all the different clouds go by, 
And wherever they wander, they seem to 

grow 
Like the towns and the country down below„ 

One is a church with a steeple tall, 
And one is a castle, with ruined wall. 
One is a mountain, and one a tree — 
Or that is the way they look to me. 

And there, v/here a bit of the sky shows 

through. 
Is a valley, that holds a lake of blue; 
And that tiniest cloud, that goes so fast 
Is a wee little boat, a-sailing past. 

I could lie on my back in the grass all day, 
And watch while the clouds fly by in play — 
I wonder if children I cannot see 
Lie up in the clouds and look down at me? 
25 



THE WISE PLAYMATE 

HLIKE to play by my lonesome self, 
Because I know how to play — 
And when other children come around 
I have to show them the way. 

I can be a princess with golden hair. 
And a jailer, cruel and grim, 
And as for the prince, you'd better believe 
I know jiist how to act like him! 

I talk to myself, and scare the cook, 
Because I know what to say — 
The other children say stupid things 
Not at all in the story way. 

I can be a soldier, all full of cuts. 
And a doctor to sew him up, 
And a pretty nurse, in a snowy cap 
With medicine in a cup. 
26 



THE WISE PLAYMATE 

So I play by myself, and talk to myself. 
And when I am grown quite big 
I shall be a cook, and a captain bold 
Like the crew of the "Nancy'* brig! 



27 



MY CATS 

S GUESS I have pretty considerable cats — 
I can't quite remember 'em all — 
For two or three couple o' kittens are wild, 
And hide in a hole in the wall. 

There*s Bupsy, the yellow one, tags me 

around 
Like a dog on the end of a string; 
And Little Me-Eye I have tried hard to 

train. 
But I can't teach that kitten a thing! 

And Big Tige is no kind of father to have, 
For he chased Little Tige up a tree, 
And clawed the poor thing on the end of 

his tail 
Till he really was awful to see! 
28 



MY CATS 

Then Dixie, he lives with the chickens and 

ducks, 
And Pussina White sleeps on my bed, 
And then in the ice house there's six or 

nine more — 
But Norval, the cross one, is dead. 

I think there are more, but I can't be quite 

sure — 
Aunty says there are "any am.ount" — 
And they mostly sit 'round in the sun by 

the shed 
So I guess I'll go out there and count. 



29 



THE BANTY HEN 

THE banty hen is awful cross, 
She picks like anything, 
She takes the skin right off my legs, 
And goodness! don't it sting! 
And once, when I was kneeling down, 
She grabbed me by the nose, 
And maybe you don't think that hurt! — 
— She's nervous, I suppose. 

And if you do a gentle dance, 
And shuffle with your feet. 
She dances, too, a regular jig 
You'd find it hard to beat 
She waves her wings, and spreads her toes, 
And prances up and down, 
And picks, and picks your shoes and legs. 
And pulls you by the gown. 
30 



THE BANTY HEN 

She hides her eggs 'most anywhere — 

I steal 'em, when I'm bad, 

And mix 'em up to make mud pies, 

Which makes the hired man mad. 

He wants a clutch of banty chicks. 

And, really, I do, too. 

But I can't seem to help but steal 

Those cunnin' eggs — could you? 

But if I leave the eggs alone 

(I'll do it, if I can) 

Or, if I take them, one by one, 

To Frank, the nice hired man, 

I'll have a lot of banty hens 

From out those cunnin' eggs — 

But oh! suppose they all should take 

To pickin' my poor legs! 



31 



THE CORN-SHELLER 

THE corn-crib stands on four tall legs, 
As high as I can reach — 
An old tin pan, turned upside down. 
Is on the top of each. 

No rats nor mice can clamber up 
Across those guardian tins, 
And oh! the glories you will find 
Within the safe-kept bins! 

Crimson and gold the long ears lie, 
And through the cracks and chinks 
In dazzling streaks across the piles 
The winter sunlight blinks. 

And in the sheller, ear by ear, 
The hired man lets me drop 
The corn, while he turns 'round the wheel. 
And never lets it stop. 
32 



THE CORN-SHELLER 

Oh, how can anyone be cross, 

Or sit around and mourn, 

When they could have a nice hired man 

And help him shell the corn! 



33 



THE BOAT HOUSE 

HOT summer sun, and a smell of tar, 
Little bare feet on a sandy floor, 
Oars, and nets, and a half-done spar. 
And the harbor shining outside the door. 

Glorious corners for hide-and-seek — 
Glorious dunnage stowed away — 
Oar-locks, pulleys, and bits of rope — 
Just the things for a youngster's play. 

Golden sun on the living green 
Of the salt thatch waving along the beach, 
Wash of the ripples, and gleam of sails, 
And the oystermen shouting each to each. 

And you fall asleep on a ragged seine, 
And dream you're afloat on a summer sea. 
Or sailing your ship on the Spanish Main- 
Till Grandmother wakes you in time for tea. 
34 



CAP'N 

[OW Captain, he's the rooster. 
But Cap'n's a different thing — 
AH me and Captain ever do 
Is sit around and sing, 
But Cap'n, he's the nicest man 
That ever dug a clam, 
And everywhere that Cap'n goes 
I follow like a lamb. 

Cap'n, he wears big rubber boots. 

And rows around the bay, 

And sails our boat, and runs our launch 

To pass his time away — 

He never seems a busy man 

Although he works so hard — 

He always stops and talks to me 

When I am in the yard. 

35 



CAP'N 

He knows the way you ought to tie 

A thousand kinds of knots; 

He lets me dabble all around 

His paint and varnish pots; 

He lets me help him paint the boats, 

And stuff the cracks with oakum, 

And when I smashed the oars, he laughed, 

And never told I broke 'em. 

And when he goes to dig for clams 

He lets me get a hoe 

And fill my own small kettle full 

And don't I love to go! 

While Captain — well, he's very nice 

But then he's not a man. 

And can't amuse me quite as well 

As dear old Cap'n can! 



36 



HORSEFOOT CRABBING 

EN the golden sunset, when the shining bay 
Lies as smooth as looking-glass at the 
close of day, 
Katie gets the oars out, Nellie gets the boat, 
And off we go a-crabbing, three bold thieves 
afloat ! 

On her face lies Nellie, on the broad stern 

seat, 
With me, to keep her in-board, sitting on 

her feet; 
Katie does the rowing, Nellie dives and 

grabs 
Shoulder-deep in water, after horsefoot 

crabs. 

None of your side-traveling, common crabs 

are these — 
Like a big brown horse-shoe, they walk 
straight off, with ease, 
37 



HORSEFOOT CRABBING 

And oh! their tails are lovely, spiky, long 

and stiff, 
Just the thing to grab them by, and land 

them in the skiff! 

They walk along the bottom, so dignified 

and slow, 
iA^nd in the shallow water we can see them 

as they go. 
And Nellie watches carefully, and hardly 

ever fails 
To reach them as they scuttle off, and catch 

them by their tails. 

When the bay grows silvery, and vanished 

is the sun. 
Home we go, like fisher-folk, all our labor 

done — 
Oh, pity the poor children who have never 

known our bay. 
Nor gone to fish for horsefoot crabs at 

close of summer day! 



38 



.^■' 



^ 



^ 




L> 




to 


/~v 


•« 


H 




, 1 


<? 


U 




> 


12 


u 


^ij 


tr> 


t3 




a 


Cd 






~C 


w 








JTJ 




Pi 


(K 


< 


^) 








■^ 


X 


o 


u 




H 




•< 


l^ 


Ph 


jj 




V 

^ 


> 






"^ 


u 




a 










^ 


<; 






s 


H 


^ 


C/5 


«ij 


w 


■^ 


K 


-c: 


H 



THE STRAWBERRY PATCH 

HEN Uncle is not looking — 
The best of times, perhaps, 
Is when the sun is high and hot, 
For then he takes his naps — 
I hurry to the garden gate, 
And struggle with the latch, 
And get inside, and scuttle quick 
Down to the berry patch. 

There grow the biggest berries 
That ever yet were seen, 
In long green rows, all orderly. 
With salt hay in between. 
And of all the ways to eat them 
The very nicest way 
Is to sit there in the broiling sun 
Upon the sweet salt hay. 
39 



THE STRAWBERRY PATCH 

Perhaps you think cold strawberries 

Are lovely, but they're not. 

They're fifty thousand times as good 

All sunny-sweet, and hot — 

Yes, getting in the berry patch 

Is quite the best of fun, 

But oh! when Uncle sees me, 

Don't I have to cut and run! 



40 



THE WOODSHED ROOF 

EF you are bold, and have no fear, 
And hold adventure high and dear. 
Oh, come and put it to the proof 
A-sliding down the woodshed roof! 

You first shin up a pile of wood, 
(I hope your gathering strings are good!) 
'And, if you reach the top alive, 
Upon a flat roof you arrive. 

There you may stop, and breathe a space 
Upon that lovely resting place. 
And then you scrabble, claw and crawl 
Up to the tip- top roof of all! 

I find it is a noble plan 
To wear my rubbers when I can — 
I hate 'em, every other time. 
But my! how nice they help you climb! 
41 



THE WOODSHED ROOF 

Then you sit down, right at the top. 

. . . Then, the first thing you know, you 

stop! 
Bang! where you started from before! 
, . . Then you crawl up, and slide some 

more. 

Then Grandma says in grave reproof, 
"You've been a-sliding down the roof!'* 
How do you b'lieve my Grandma knows? 
— She tells it by my underclo'es! 

(Published in The Housekeeper.) 



42 



KEEWAYDIN 

^VER the hills, 

And across the bay 
The wind is blowing 

The fog away — 
Over the harbor 

The white-caps foam — 
And the Nor'-West Wind 

Brings the sea-gulls home. 

The pines are roaring 

A windy song, 
And the gusts are blowing 

The leaves along, 
The sky is the bluest 

That ever was seen — 
The Nor'-West Wind 

Sweeps the whole world clean. 

43 



KEEWAYDIN' 

The white-caps fly 

Like fairy ships, 
And the salt of the spray 

Is on my Hps — 
Of all God's winds 

I love the best 
The Home-Wind, blowing 

From sheer Nor'-West! 



44 



THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE 

^UT in the swamp where the lilies 
bloom — 

The tall red lilies like fairy fire — 
And where the flag-flowers are blue in 

spring, 
That is the Land of Heart's Desire. 

There in the brook there are speckled trout, 
And holes where my feet go sinking down. 
Shining, pebbly, shallow rifts, 
And pools and binnikills, still and brown. 

Then there are spots that you have to jump, 
And fat green hummocks on which to 

land — 
Waving cat-tails, and meadow pinks, 
And pussy-willows on either hand. 
45 



THE LAND OF HEARTS DESIRE 

And somewhere a black-snake as big as me 
(Or very nearly) has made his den — 
And when I remember that he is there 
Oh, how I run to get home again! 

But I mostly forget him. I love my swamp 
Where the cardinal flowers lift their slender 

fire — 
Grandmother says it's a dirty hole, 
But / call it my Land of Heart's Desire. 



46 



THE BLACKSMITH 

BESIDE the little brook that flows 
Through my Land of Heart's Desire 
The blacksmith has his grimy shop, 
And tends his glowing hre — 
The shop has such a funny smell 
Of hot iron, hoofs and smoke 
I really think the blacksmith can't 
Be quite like other folk. 

There all day long the horses stamp 
And farmers come and go. 
And all day long, among the sparks 
The red-hot horse shoes glow — 
I shouldn't think a horse would like 
His shoes nailed to his toes. 
But Grandpa says it doesn't hurt, 
And Grandpa always knows. 
47 



THE BLACKSMITH 

Some times the blacksmith hammers out 

iA! ringing, shining tire, 

And rolls it in my sparkling brook 

To cool it from the fire, 

And sometimes Grandpa stops with me 

When we are driving 'round, 

And makes him look at Midget's shoes, 

And give the nails a pound. 

The blacksmith is the dirtiest! 

His face is never clean. 

His hands, his apron, and his shirt 

The blackest ever seen. 

But Sundays, what do you suppose? 

In church I often see 

The blacksmith, dressed in real man's 

clo'es. 
As clean as he can be! 



48 



THE GARDEN FLOWERS 

THE first little flowers that I' find in 
Spring 
Are the Bluebells — I listen to hear them 

ring, 
But they never seem to. And next I see 
White Violets, down by the chestnut tree — 
Then come Daffodils, gay and tall. 
And Sea-Pinks, all over the low stone 

wall — 
Then, in the garden, when Summer comes, 
When the fairy humming-bird whirs and 

hums, 
Come Johnny-jump-ups, and Roses, too, 
And sweet Clove Pinks, and the Larkspur 

blue, 
And the Lady's Slippers, whose funny seeds 
Go pop! when you pinch them. Among the 

weeds 

49 



THE GARDEN FLOWERS 

By the Seckel pear tree, the Mandrakes 

grow, 
And over the fence Nasturtiums glow, 
And every flower that a perfume sheds 
Grows thick and sweet in the long, straight 

beds; 
And backwards and forwards between the 

rows, 
With her basket and scissors, my Aunty 

goes — 
Then Artemisias, the last of all 
Bloom golden and brown in the frosty Fall. 



50 



THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 

FROM the top of the Bluff, where the 
wind blows free, 
Clear out to the edge of the world I see. 
And I look and look, till my eyes grow dim. 
But I can't see what lies over the rim! 

I see the steamers go In towards town; 
I watch the schooners sail slowly down — 
Down out of sight, and far away — 
Oh ! I shall sail over the rim, some day. 

Over the rim, and far beyond, 

To Hong-Kong, and Bagdad, and Treb- 

izond. 
And Ceylon's Isle, where the breezes blow, 
And the Happy Harbor, where good 

ships go. 

51 



THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 

■And it may be bad, or it may be fair, 
And I may come back, or I may stay there, 
But one thing is sure — be it gay or grim, 
Some day — some day — I must cross that 
rim! 



52 



"CHRISTMAS BY THE SEA" 

N Christmas Eve we always go 
Through frost and cold, through ice 
and snow 
Down to the church, and there we see 
Oh! such a shining Christmas tree! 

In front of it, a manger low — 
Like that in Bethlehem, you know. 
And there we put our gifts and toys 
For all the orphan girls and boys. 

And then the sweet loud bell is rung, 
And prayers and carols said and sung. 
Then come our presents off the tree — 
And then comes "Christmas by the Sea!" 

No other children ever sing 
Our song of sailors wandering; 
They do not know it, far away, 
But only here, beside the Bay. 

53 



"CHRISTMAS BY THE SEA" 

It is a little song which tells 
How we have Christmas lights and bells. 
But how, at sea, each lonely bark 
Sails on in silence, and the dark. 

But how, by riverside and Bay 
And everywhere, 'tis Christmas Day, 
And even sailors, far at sea 
Remember Christmas happily. 

Then homeward, through the frosty air 
Beneath a clear, cold Heaven, where 
The still, bright stars are shining down 
As once they shone o'er Bethlehem town- 
And oh! I love the Christmas tree 
And our own Christmas, by the sea. 



54 



THE PLAYMATE OF NAZARETH 

LITTLE Lord Jesus, Who used to play 
With the children of Nazareth every 
day, 
Look down from Heaven, oh Playmate 

mild. 
And hear the prayers of a little child. 

As You used to help Your dear father work 
Teach my little fingers not to shirk 
And as You used to play when Your work 

was done, 
Be near, and watch over my work and fun. 

You know all the woes of a little lad, 

So help me and comfort me when I am 

sad — 
But You used to be laughing and cheerful, 

too, 
So make me a happy child. Lord, like You. 

55 



THE PLAYMATE OF NAZARETH 

Little Lord Jesus, Who played, like me, 
On the shore by the lake in Galilee, 
Take care of a little child I pray, 
And help me remember You every day. 

(Published in The Evening Mail Saturday Magazine.) 



56 



THE GRAPE-VINE SWING 

THE leaves are green above my head, 
And brown beneath my feet 
Where they have lain for years and years, 
A carpet deep and sweet, 
The sunshine sprinkles through the boughs 
And brown wood-robins sing, 
While I go sweeping through the air 
On the wild-grapevine swing. 

The long, straight cable dangles down 
From a tall chestnut tree — 
It's plenty strong enough to hold 
A heavy girl like me — 
I grab it tight with both my hands 
And wrap my legs around, 
And like a pendulum I swing, 
Far, far above the ground. 
57 



THE GRAPE-VINE SWING 

I push off from a little hill 

And sway out from the slope — 

Not like a quickly-flying swing" 

Made out of boards and rope, 

But out — far out — a long, slow sweep 

The great vine makes, until 

It stops, and brings me slowly back 

To touch the little hill. 

Sunlight, green leaves, and shadows dance, 
And sweet wood-robins sing. 
While I sway, dreaming to and fro 
On the wild grape-vine swing. 



S8 



THE DEAR PEOPLE 

THERE'S Aunty Baker, who always 
makes 
Dear little scallopy patty-pan cakes 
Just as cunnin' as they can be, 
And puts pink sugar on top, for me ! 
Nicholas Bennett, bent and gray 
Goes to his garden every day 
Up the Cove, with his stout old cane, 
And I trot with him along the lane. 
Katherine comes to our house and cleans, 
Bunches asparagus, shells the beans — 
Anything, almost, she can do! 
And she tells me tales about Ireland, too. 
Teddy Regan, he goes to sea 
And he brought a parrot home to me, 
And a bag made of wonderful knotted 

strings. 
And a sandal-wood box for my sewing 

things. 

59 



THE DEAR PEOPLE 

When I have sick and sorry days 

Dear Mrs. Townsend comes and stays, 

And hugs me up close against her breiast 

Until I forget the ache, and rest. 

And then Frank Hall knows how to tap 

The maple trees, to get the sap 

And lets me have some, so I can 

Boil syrup in my little pan. 

Oh, there are dozens more I love — 

Katrina Carll, from up the Cove; 

The three black ''Aunties," tall and fine, 

Aunt Julia and Aunt Caroline 

And plump Aunt Gusta — and all three 

Always so good and kind to me; 

Cap'n John Hawx (but oh, disgrace! 

He will swear when he sails a race!) — 

I can't begin to tell you, though, 

All the dear people that I know, 

But I remember every name 

And love them dearly, just the same! 



60 



COUSIN ARNOLD'S MILL 

SOMETIMES with Grandfather I go 
Up past the schoolhouse hill 
And down along the little lane 
To Cousin Arnold's mill, 
And while they talk of grown-up things 
Like "middhn's," *'grist," and ''bran," 
I run to see the mill-wheel turn 
As quickly as I can. 

Along beneath the cool green trees 

The cool green mill stream flows, 

Then through a long gray wooden flume 

Down to the wheel it goes; 

The wheel is green with shining moss 

And fringed with tiny ferns, 

And glittering drops of silver spray 

Fly from it as it turns. 

I love to hear it turn and turn 
With gentle creak and drip — 
6i 



COUSIN ARNOLD'S MILL 

Then from the cool, and green, and quiet 

Into the mill I slip, 

And there — oh! such a whizz, and whirr. 

And clatter, buzz, and jar. 

Within the white, flour-dusted room 

Where the great mill-stones are! 

The whirring belts fly, overhead; 

The golden wheat runs down; 

And at my feet the great gray stones 

Grind steadily around, 

And flour is over everything 

Like fine, soft-powdered snow — 

Why, even Cousin Arnold's clothes 

Are wliite from top to toe! 

When I grow up, it's hard to tell 
What I would like to be — 
Sometimes I think a blacksmith brave, 
Sometimes a man at sea, 
But when I think hoAV white the flour, 
How cool the stream and still. 
How swift the stones — I'd like to live 
In Cousin Arnold's mill! 
62 



THE YELLOW STAGE 

EKNOW that in the city streets 
Horse-cars go jingling up and down. 
And omnibuses, green and gay, 
Madly career about the town, 
But I am sure that nowhere else 
In this or any other age 
Was there so grand a wagon seen 
As Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 

On every week-day, rain or shine, 

(On Sundays, Amos goes to church) 

To meet the early morning train 

The stage starts off, with jolt and lurch, 

With creak and rattle, bounce and bang, 

Up the long street it makes its way — 

The two old horses jog along. 

The yellow paint shines brave and gay. 

Then home again at noon it comes 
Important with the daily mail, 

63 



THE YELLOW STAGE 

And back to meet the evening train — 

Why, if the yellow stage should fail 

The skies would fall, I'm very sure! 

It matters not how hot the sun 

How hard the rain, how deep the snow, 

The yellow stage is sure to run! 

But oh! upon the Glorious Fourth, 
Comes its most splendid trip of all 
For then the band, with fife and drum, 
Blare of trombone, and bugle call, 
Comes forth to celebrate the day 
And makes a gorgeous pilgrimage 
From house to house for miles around 
In Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 

Clash, clash the cymbals, beat the drums! 
"Gem of the Ocean," how we roar! 
"Star- Spangled Banner," how it floats 
With horn and fife, from door to door! 
Bang, bang the bass drum ! here she comes ! 
Columbia's grandest equipage — 
The spirit of our bravest brave 
In Amos Boerum's yellow stage! 

64 



DOWN THE BLUFF 

SF you would prove that you are made 
Of real true hero stuff 
You go on Sunday afternoon 
And run down Cooper's Bluff! 

Across the fields where cedar trees 
Stand up like grenadiers, 
And through the woods, you take your way 
In spite of secret fears. 

You stand upon the Bluff's high edge, 
While with a joyous roar 
Down dash the bigger boys and girls 
Who have been down before. 

Far, far below the harbor shines, 
It looks at least a mile, 
You don't see hozv the others face 
That prospect with a smile! 
6s 



DOWN THE BLUFF 

You wish you were that Oak Neck man 
Who on a shovel sat 
And coasted gaily down the Bluff! 
You think you might do that! 

You start. You jump. You plunge. You 

hop. 
At first you think you'll fall — 
But then you gallop madly on — 
It isn't bad at all! 

And then on Sunday afternoons 
You find it fun enough 
To take new children out, to try 
The run down Cooper's Bluff ! 



66 



BED-TIME SONG 

SHUT tight, Starry Eyes! 
The stars are opening in the skies 
And they will watch over the world, to- 
night, 
While you are hiding your amber light. 

Rest, rest, Butterfly Hands! 

The white moths are out in shimmering 

bands, 
And they will be busy among your flowers 
While you are quiet for a few short hours. 

Be still, Twinkling Feet! 

The wind comes whirling along the street, 

Into the East; out of the West — 

He dances, while you lie still and rest. 

And out, far out, on the wings of a dream, 
Fly, Little Soul, like a white moon-gleam, 
Till the sun comes out of his hole — and 

then 
Quick! Little Soul, come back again! 

67 



IN THE COVE 

THERE'S a hill above the harbor 
Which ebbs and flows beneath it 
there — 
A small hill, a grassy hill, 
The path is rough and steep; 
The pine-trees sing above it, 
And creeping vines enwreath it there — 
The little quiet hilltop 
Where the Colonel lies asleep. 

The circling seagulls v^heel above 
When winter gales blow over it; 
The song-birds build their nests there, 
And rabbits run and play; 
The locust-trees drop scented flowers, 
And moss and myrtle cover it, 
And the wind brings whiffs of sea-salt 
From the white-caps on the bay. 
68 



IN THE COVE 

Close, close within the heart of home 

The soldier lays him down at last; 

Deep in the quiet Cove he loved 

The hunter is at rest; 

The Heart of all the Nation sleeps 

Upon our tiny hill at last, 

While all the trumpets sound for him 

Beyond the shining West. 

(Printed in the Outlook for March 5. iQip) 
THE END 



69 



I 



